Here Comes The Sun
by srslycirce
Summary: It's the 1970s. America and England are rockin' out. Russia cannot handle the rock. This looks like it could get very, very bad... Oneshot, gen.


England had been unsure of the efficacy of America's "Walkin' Rockin' Machine," but all in all he was thankful America had invented something that wasn't a weapon. Well, he hadn't initially thought it was a weapon, anyway.

_"If there's anything that you want -"_

Besides, the machine in question was less a machine per se and more of a guitar, bass, and microphone hooked up to an amp which was in turn hooked up to a large battery and a small red wagon. America had expressed interest in adding a drum set, but wasn't sure quite how to do so. Occasionally a few things got unplugged, and occasionally the mic stand fell off the front, but overall America had proved that it was indeed possible to walk and rock simultaneously. "Like a bard or something. A wandering minstrel," America had explained.

_"If there's anything I can do-"_

So now they were wandering the land, treating the world to an impromptu Beatles concert. Every so often they switched off between guitar and bass. England did feel somewhat silly, but America's irrational exuberance made up for it. The older nation enjoyed the change that had come over his friend these past few years. After the ferocious normalcy and paranoia of the fifties, America seemed to have lightened up. More of an interest in flowers and sunshine, less of an interest in insisting Russia was plotting his death. This new America was more relaxed, more carefree, and probably on several drugs at any given moment but frankly if things were better that way England didn't care.

_"Just call on me and I'll send it along-"_

America was clearly lost in the music, strumming with all his might (were the Beatles ever supposed to be that loud?) and not even looking where he was going. But England was looking. And when he saw the house they had come to, the one surrounded by looming evergreens and a spiked iron fence, he stopped. Perhaps they should turn back.

_"With love from me to you," _America finished. He looked over his shoulder at England, who had stopped several feet behind him. "What's the matter?" he asked. "You tired already? You gotta work on your stamina, old man."

"I'm not tired. Or old, for that matter," England snapped. "But can't you see where we are?"

America looked around. Realization came over his face, then a smile. "Don't tell me you're afraid of the big bad bear."

"I just think-"

"I like my new nickname," said Russia.

"Where the bloody hell did you come from!"

"From my house." Russia closed the gate behind him with a clang. "I couldn't help but hear you two."

"Yeah, the music's pretty great, isn't -"

"I hate it." Russia did not stop smiling.

America stared, uncomprehending. "What? But it's the music of peace and happiness! Don't you love peace and happiness, man?"

"Trust me, America, I love peace and happiness even more than you do, and it would be much more peaceful and happy around here if you would take your Western noise and leave, da?" Still smiling.

America blinked. "England, you hearing this, man?"

"Perhaps he's right, you know..."

"He's not feeling the love."

"I mean, think of it, if someone showed up in front of your house playing music you didn't like..."

"He's not feeling the LOVE."

"America." England took him by the arm. "We should go."

"I think England has good ideas. I think you should listen to him."

America stood still a few seconds, pondering, as England tugged at him. "Well," he said slowly. "I guess we'll leave."

"Great," said England, turning to go.

"But first, I want to play you a song!"

"_No_." England was mortified.

America grinned and strummed a chord. "This one's for you, Ivan."

"America. _NO._"

Russia leaned on his gate and smiled, a little darker this time. The air seemed a little colder.

_"You say you want a revolution..."_

England put a palm to his face. "Of all the songs in the world," he muttered.

_"Well, you know..."_

Russia's expression was very dark now, and there was an odd noise emanating from him, something along the lines of "kolkolkol".

_"We all want to change the world."_

A sharp wind began to blow. Russia's smile was beginning to look more like a grimace. "America," England hissed.

_"You tell me that it's evolution..."_

No, that was not a smile. That was vicious bared teeth and demonic eyes. "I think it is time to stop, da?"

_"Well, you know..."_

Russia looked very uncomfortable, and very angry. Though the icy wind was blowing harder than ever, he was visibly sweating and clutching at his coat as though he were about to open it. England attempted to wrench America's hand away from his guitar, but the damned kid held fast.

_"We all want to change the world."_

"Stop. Stop." Russia clamped his hands over his ears. England began to realize that underneath Russia's mask of rage, he seemed absolutely terrified. "Stop stop stop."

"America!" England hissed. "Quit it! I think you're _hurting _him somehow!"

America was doing an impressive job of pretending to be completely oblivious. _"But when you talk about destruction..."_

Russia dug his fingers into his hair and began breathing heavily. England gave up on trying to stop America and backed away slowly.

_"Don't you know that you can-"_

_"-count me out!" _And Russia ripped off his coat, to reveal a sunflower-patterned t-shirt and blue jeans.

England stared in shock. America's guitar trailed off. Russia grinned - not his usual smile, but a look so full of genuine warmth and friendship that even England was almost charmed. America made some noises. Russia's face began to fall -

_"Don't you know it's gonna be! All right!" _And America tore into the guitar. Russia grabbed the microphone and belted out the chorus. After a few seconds of paralyzed confusion, England shrugged and began the bass line.

They rocked out through the next two verses. Russia could sing fairly well, though it was a little pitchy. But what he lacked in technical skill he made up for in style. He danced with fervor. He twirled. He shimmied. He leaned into the mic so as to harmonize with America when appropriate. (That is, using a very broad definition of harmonize.) America jammed almost loud enough to drown out Russia's singing, but not quite. England just stood back and grooved.

_"...You're not gonna make it with anyone anyhow!"_

_"Don't you know it's gonna be! All right! All right! All right, all right..."_

America ended the song with a flourish. Russia grinned again and smoothed his messy hair, and then realized where he was and what was going on. He looked down at himself in abject horror. With trembling hands, he pulled his coat back on. He was not smiling. "If you ever come back here with that infernal noise again," he growled, "the KGB will know, and they will find you."

"'Kay. Groovy."

Russia gave him a look that could freeze oceans, shook his head, and vanished back into the trees.

America smirked after him. He looked about to leave, but on a whim he leaned over the fence and shouted: "Rock on, comrade! Rock on!" The words echoed around the trees.

America looked back at England with an intensity of smugness that few others could reach. "You know, maybe I was wrong."

"...Wrong about what?"

"Maybe you British guys can do magic after all."

And America picked up his guitar once more and began to sing. _"There's nothing you can do that can't be done..."_ England picked up the bass. They walked on.


End file.
